


Hemicrania

by TempestGael



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale, M/M, Migraine, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Protective Crowley, Sick Aziraphale, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 17:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20586629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestGael/pseuds/TempestGael
Summary: Following the body swap comes lunch at the Ritz and a future of endless possibilities. But not even angels are immune to certain human consequences of stress and anxiety.





	Hemicrania

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is what the cool kids are calling "I'm projecting personal experience on to Aziraphale, because there's no way he and Crowley are not seriously messed up after six millennia and an averted Apocalypse".
> 
> This can be read either as pre-romantic relationship or as Aziraphale and Crowley's particular brand of platonic relationship - whatever floats your boat!

The effusive happiness lasted from Tavistock Square to now. Aziraphale had felt freer, more content, than he could ever recall feeling at once. He suspected Crowley felt the same, as they had meandered from the gardens to the Ritz - no miracles, no Bentley speeding them at heart-stopping speed through London's streets...just a companionable stroll among humans who had no idea how close they'd come to destruction. For a brief period of time the pressures of Heaven and Hell were lifted, and the eternity that stretched before them was unfettered, free of expectations and orders. Their side. 

It seemed inconceivable, but it was over - the Antichrist, impending Armageddon...that sword of Damocles over their heads was simply gone. Aziraphale felt like he could _breathe_ for the first time in ages. Perhaps he and Crowley should have had more of a hand in it somehow - more than ending up as glorified cheerleaders, relegated to serving as witnesses on the sidelines, at least, but...it had all turned out so well regardless. It wouldn't do to regret their personal lack of heroics. Armageddon averted. Heaven and Hell, and their repercussions, neatly sidestepped (thank you, Mistress Nutter) following a nerve-wracking night of no rest and plotting. Now they were, improbably, impossibly, sitting at a table for two, close enough to touch, dining at the Ritz, chatting like the old (ancient) friends they were.  
  
Well, Aziraphale chatted, delighting in every smirk-to-true-smile, every snicker-to-belly-laugh he was able to coax out of Crowley.

Yet as their lunch went on Aziraphale could not shake the hunted feeling to which he'd grown so accustomed. The feeling that at any moment Heaven's representatives would return, would exact some horrible brand of revenge. The back of his neck prickled with some rude, unwelcome paranoia, tempting him to check over his shoulder; his imagination provided the phantom impression of Gabriel looming at his right shoulder, waiting to pass judgment on Aziraphale's more unsavoury (human) habits.

All of that paranoia, that anxiety, that he bottled up and pushed _down_, and there was also the issue of his vision, which had since his return from Hell been erupting more frequently with strange star-bursts of light. One such burst interrupted a particularly amusing anecdote he was weaving for Crowley (one told many times before, but to tell it again, to laugh and illustrate the most amusing parts with grand gestures, made it feel new again); made Aziraphale blink rapidly, shake his head slightly in an attempt to get rid of it. It had be his new corporation - pulled without so much as a by-your-leave from the aether - or perhaps a side-effect of their body swap. He wondered if Crowley was experiencing any strange symptoms and thought to ask, but with the abrupt shake of his head a dull, unpleasant ache pulsed in his right temple. His movement also seemed to sharpen Crowley's attention; he peered at Aziraphale over the rims of his glasses, one eyebrow cocked. "All right, angel?"

Aziraphale didn't have to feign his smile; the sudden ache receded quickly and the strange lights did nothing more than pose a minor annoyance when they briefly obscured Crowley's face or Aziraphale's delectable crème brûlée. He applied himself to his dessert with his usual care. "Certainly, dear. Positively tickety-boo," he added, just to see Crowley's face screw up in distaste. He didn't get to see the full effect, however, as three blooms of light, like fireworks, burst in his central vision. Aziraphale pressed the thumb and forefinger of his free hand to the corners of his eyes and squeezed them shut, willing the lights to disperse.

"What?" Crowley straightened a little from his characteristic slouch. "What's wrong?"

Aziraphale shook his head again and regretted it; when he opened his eyes the dining room tilted alarmingly. "I'm sure it's nothing. Minor headache, I'm afraid; it's come on rather suddenly."

"We can go. I'll -" Crowley twisted in his seat, intending to flag a waiter, muttering about obtaining their bill. Aziraphale reached out an caught Crowley's sleeve before he could draw attention to their table. 

"No, honestly - this crème brûlée is scrumptious; it'd be a terrible pity to waste it." These symptoms, surely, were the culmination, or perhaps release, of stress - particularly of yesterday, and these leftover echoes of anxiety haunting him now. It was certainly unusual, given Aziraphale's stunning record of good health over six millennia, but averting Armageddon and all the excitement it had entailed had put a strain on he and Crowley both: their corporeal and ethereal forms. Aziraphale patted Crowley's hand when it seemed he remained unconvinced. "I won't spoil our lunch, Crowley. This bothersome thing will keep. I believe, though, that I will switch to water; the wine doesn't seem to be agreeing with me at the moment."

Crowley subsided at last, though Aziraphale could still feel that keen gaze on him as he ate. "If you say so, angel." He discreetly waved a hand, and a pitcher of water and a tall glass appeared between them on the table.

Gradually, to Aziraphale's relief, the odd lights stopped bursting in his vision. The food, or the water, seemed to make a difference; his new corporation must have been dehydrated, or overly hungry. He still felt oddly light-headed, but the wine could be held responsible for that particular symptom. Alcohol and exhaustion were not the best of bedfellows.

They lingered in companionable silence as Aziraphale finished his dessert and Crowley polished off the last of the wine. "Well," Crowley said at length, stretching his arms and legs before rising, "shall we get on?"

Aziraphale nodded, but he froze in place when the ache in his temple returned abruptly, sharp and breathtaking. His corporation felt at once ice-cold and infernally feverish; he concentrated on regulating his breathing reflex, trying to overcome the thickness settling at the base of his throat and threatening to heave minutely upward. He knew instinctively that if he allowed it his lovely meal would make a return in an all-too-human manner, and he planted his palms flat against the table until the pressing urge to vomit receded and he could rise to his feet. The smile he offered Crowley bravely tried to be sincere, but he knew it fell short - too tight, too distracted - and couldn't help it. "The bookshop?" he managed.

"Whatever you like." Crowley, bless him, didn't seem to notice Aziraphale's distress for the moment, distracted as he was summoning payment for their meals from the aether. He sloped away from the table to hand off the payment to their waiter; Aziraphale followed much more slowly, hoping to keep the pain in his head quiet just as long as it took to get back to the settee in his shop. The room swooped precariously around him as he walked, and his stomach did the same, protesting the movement. "Oh." Aziraphale panted, lips parted, around his rising gorge. He was cognizant of the other patrons staring, knew he appeared overly drunk, a cold sweat on his forehead, but the pain just seemed to be getting worse - how could it be getting worse? It felt like an awful brand of torture: a glacially-cold bolt driving insistently into his brain. Aziraphale didn't think he could force himself forward another step; wanted nothing more than to give in to the urge to curl up on the floor and wrap both arms around his head to provide some sort of pressure, some kind of relief.

A firm band of pressure around his upper arm briefly refocused his attention; he became dimly aware of Crowley leaning in close, close enough that Aziraphale could make out his friend's eyes, wide and very golden, behind tinted lenses. He found it quite impossible to focus on what Crowley was saying; in a rather frightening turn of events, half of Aziraphale's field of vision shivered and blurred alarmingly, obscuring part of Crowley's face. "I'm afraid I feel rather unwell," he gasped - a paltry attempt at expressing what he was feeling, made all the more difficult by the clumsy, too-thick tongue in his arid mouth. This pain was frightening in a way he had never experienced - no obvious wound to tend, no visible source of such distress. His corporation's heart fluttered, the sensation tickling the base of his throat, further stoking anxiety exacerbated by his mind's dark imaginings of this being Heaven's swift retribution for his uncovered deception. 

Crowley forced them into motion, propelling Aziraphale forward by that grip on his arm and another firm guiding pressure at the small of his back - moving steadily as if he could help Aziraphale outrun his encroaching panic. Through the restaurant, into the lobby, outside into the cooling evening air, all flashing past Aziraphale's downturned gaze in a blur of patterned carpet, shiny tile, smooth stone. Outside his senses were assaulted - the relief of fresh air overpowered by the typical cacophony of Piccadilly and the sunlight, still afternoon-bright on such an unparalleled summer's day, conspiring to drive the ice-pick of pain deeper into Aziraphale's frontal lobe. In response to the redoubling of agony he was helpless against his corporation's reaction. His stomach rebelled so completely that he had no time to warn Crowley before doubling over and vomiting on the pavement. His body heaved again and again, with force enough to leave tears streaming, until there was nothing left to bring up but sour bile. Aziraphale panted harshly, felt his pulse thunder behind his eyes, and dry heaved pitifully for several more minutes until the retching seemed to pass. Gradually, shivering and wrung out, he sagged against an iron bar which had appeared across his chest to prevent him collapsing forward into his own sick. Crowley was blessing quietly through gritted teeth and Aziraphale deliriously started thinking of all the ways he should apologise for probably vomiting all over his shoes. Nice shoes. He'd been wearing them himself - wearing Crowley's entire corporation - not a handful of hours earlier.

"You didn't, angel, don't be stupid." Crowley's voice was cross, but Aziraphale could detect the undercurrent of fear belying his bluster. The bar across Aziraphale's chest - Crowley's arm, he realized vaguely - pulled, helping him straighten up again. Miraculously the pain seemed to have diminished to a tolerable level after the bout of nausea. He could have started weeping from sheer exhausted relief. "Hold on just a little longer," Crowley said, very close to his ear. Something slipped against Aziraphale's nose, slid behind his ears, offering a darkened filter against the bright sunlight. "We'll get you home, to your books and your cocoa - we just have to..." Crowley trailed off, but in the next instant they were moving again. Low step, another one - blaring car horn, which died immediately - no doubt about a demonic intervention there. Aziraphale lifted his head (when had it dropped to Crowley's shoulder?) and realized they were crossing the lanes of traffic. _Where...?_

Boots. The pharmacy was unmistakable. Aziraphale let Crowley lead him through the door, deposit him gently onto a chair in the waiting area. "Sir -" A strident male voice, unfamiliar. "I'm afraid if the gentleman is intoxicated -"

"He isn't intoxicated," Crowley snapped. "He's ill. He needs...medicine." 

Indignant, Aziraphale rallied to protest. He was an angel. Ethereal beings did not _need medication_; human corporations had limitations but the power inherent in a celestial being was perfectly capable, thank you, of taking care of itself -

He must have said none of this aloud, as no one responded or even reacted - not even Crowley, who was growing blurrier in Aziraphale's compromised vision as he walked away. He was following the fellow who suspected Aziraphale of being intoxicated. Which he was, in all honesty; just a tad. The wine. Crowley hadn't been entirely truthful about that. 

It wasn't important. The pain in his head was surging again, becoming all-encompassing, and Aziraphale suspected he was going to be ill again very soon. He leaned forward, pressed the palms both hands against his eyes, and tried to concentrate on the slow breaths that quelled the nausea a little. He couldn't say how much time passed, but there was Crowley again, hovering behind a woman who crouched in front of Aziraphale and gently pulled his hands away from his eyes. "Mr. Fell," she said quietly. "Can you show me where exactly the pain seems to be coming from?"

That was easily done. Aziraphale pressed one finger directly into his right temple. "You said he vomited? Mr. Fell, are you feeling nauseated now?"

"Yes," he rasped. The woman pressed something into his hands - a sick bag. The paper rustled as Aziraphale closed his hand around it tightly, and even that small sound was enough to make him grit his teeth. 

"Just in case," she said kindly. "Mr. Fell, can you tell me if you experienced any kind of aura before the pain began? Any lines in your vision...spots...lights?"

Aziraphale started to nod, but the pain warned him against that; he slammed his eyelids shut. "Yes," he ground out. "Lights. Star-bursts."

"Migraine," the woman said. "I have no doubt. They often go on their own if the patient is able to rest - complete darkness tends to be best, especially if he's photosensitive."

Crowley stuttered incoherent, half-formed protests, then - "But he's in _pain_. I've never seen him like this. Isn't there anything - medication?" 

"His physician can prescribe something; I'm afraid we don't write prescriptions here. If you find a walk-in clinic you may have more luck..." The voices went away, leaving Aziraphale alone again. He knew Crowley was still protesting, but didn't try to make sense of what was being said. _Migraine_. Something human; not demonic, not heavenly...unless that was the point. A human affliction, so soon after turning his back on Heaven? Perhaps that was his punishment. He tentatively reached for his powers, to try and miracle the symptoms away, but the power was elusive, seeming to slip like water through his fingers, his focus dulled by the persistent crushing pain in his skull. Was he somehow being stripped of his power, his divine abilities? He suddenly felt desperate to return to the bookshop; darkness and quiet, being left alone to think and recover - it sounded wonderful, even if he didn't sleep. 

"Come on, angel." Crowley returned, maneuvering Aziraphale's limbs so one arm draped across Crowley's shoulders. Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's waist, holding him up with a hand fisted in his overcoat, and they shuffled together back into the noise. A black cab stopped for them immediately and Aziraphale half-crawled inside, grateful for the reasonably soft seat, and curled on himself while Crowley gave the driver the address for the shop. The arm of Crowley's borrowed glasses dug uncomfortably into the side of his head; Aziraphale rolled his head and shoulder fitfully to relieve the pressure, but Crowley reached out and pressed gently on his shoulder. "Leave it," he said softly. "It won't be long, and they seem to be helping a little."

The motion of the cab stirred up the nausea again, and by the time they reached Soho Aziraphale was half-kneeling on the floor of the cab, heaving pitifully into his sick bag. "There'd better not be a mess back there," the driver's tinny voice snarled over the intercom. Crowley didn't respond, just helped Aziraphale out of the cab and into the blessed quiet of the bookshop. Even the peal of the bell above the door was torture, and he cringed away from it. Crowley must have miracled them to the first floor and Aziraphale's tiny flat, because between one breath and the next Aziraphale was standing beside his rarely-used bed. A snap of fingers from Crowley had the bedding fresh and free of dust, and he offered a steadying hand as Aziraphale crawled onto the mattress and collapsed half on his stomach, burying his face gratefully into the cool pillow. It wasn't entirely comfortable at first, with the dark glasses digging painfully into his nose and temples, but they were soon tugged free. Aziraphale opened bleary eyes to half mast and watched as Crowley folded them neatly and laid them on the bedside table. _It's all right now_, he wanted to say, to reassure his friend. _If I can just stay here a while I'll be perfectly well in no time_. Unfortunately the words wouldn't come, emerging only as "Mmmph". 

He also didn't _know_ if he would be perfectly well. Not if this was his punishment. His head did ache ever so much; Aziraphale worried he might discorporate before he managed to recover. 

"Here," Crowley said suddenly. He lowered himself onto the mattress beside Aziraphale and pressed something into his hand. A small white pill. "Sit up. Drink this."

"What...?" Aziraphale blinked dopily at the pill but allowed Crowley to help him sit up and press a tumbler of water into his free hand. 

Crowley shrugged. "Medication for these migraines. Pharmacist gave me the name of one and I, erm, _obtained_ it."

"You stole it?" 

"Demon," Crowley reminded him. "If this one doesn't work there are others. I'll ring bloody NHS-111 if I have to. Pharmacist said it'll make you drowsy - well, does for humans anyway, but hopefully it'll work for you. Pain will go while you sleep."

Aziraphale recoiled. "No. Don't sleep."

Crowley hissed. "Don't be an idiot! You're in pain, you're ill - take the damn thing and you'll be fine in a few hours."

Aziraphale didn't know how to communicate how uneasy it made him, the thought of sleep - to be completely vulnerable for hours at a time, to be utterly unaware of what was happening around him. To voice his fear that this was Heaven's influence, and not something that could be taken away by a human pill.

Somehow Crowley seemed to know. He always seemed to know. His voice lost its irritated edge. "She said these can be caused by stress - and angel, we've been more stressed in forty-eight hours than we've been in the last eleven years. Or six bloody millennia. You'll be fine."

Dratted illness; Aziraphale's eyes burned and when he spoke his voice was creaky in his tight throat. "Are you certain?"

Crowley nudged the hand holding the pill. "I'll be here; you'll be fine. I won't let anything happen, angel - to either of us. Just...take it. Get better. Please."

Trembling with the effort of sitting up, Aziraphale swallowed the pill, followed up with several mouthfuls of water. At last Crowley helped him lay down again and tugged the bedding up around him. Crowley shifted on the mattress, back against the headboard, and ankles crossed. His hand made an aborted movement toward Aziraphale's face, hesitating for a few moments before Crowley seemed to come to a decision. Fingers pressed lightly against the painful point Aziraphale had indicated earlier and started up a gentle circular massage. It didn't alleviate the pain immediately, but Aziraphale felt the tightness in his forehead begin to dissipate, and he let his eyelids droop closed on a small sigh. Eventually the tension from head to toe began to loosen, and a not-unpleasant fuzziness spread and overtook the pain just enough for him to be swept under into sleep.

\------------

He surfaced slowly, body lax and uncooperative. He held still for a long moment, waiting for...something. Anticipating something that didn't come. There was an absence of something.

Pain.

The terrible pain in his head was gone. He didn't feel as though he'd immediately be physically ill, though something felt a little more fragile than usual. Even so, Aziraphale released tension that had built up in the last few moments, going limp against the mattress.

A hand started up a gentle rubbing between his shoulder blades, massaging where his wings would manifest. "Aziraphale?"

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at Crowley's collarbone. It took a tremendous effort to lift his head, but the relieved expression on Crowley's face, giving way to a soft smile, was worth it. "Erm..how do you feel?"

Aziraphale lay his head down again as he processed the question. Crowley was on his side, head propped up on one hand. He didn't stop the gentle sweep of the other hand up and down Aziraphale's back. "Better," Aziraphale said finally. "The pain is gone. But I feel...strange."

"Strange how?"

He hummed thoughtfully. "Unsettled? Slightly nauseated. Stiff shoulders, arms, legs. Head feels muddled. Thought it was...Upstairs," he admitted sheepishly.

Crowley's hand paused briefly before resuming, this time pressing the stiffness out of Aziraphale's shoulders. "Nope," he said with feigned casualness. "Just some human inconvenience. All the stress, the pressure...that new corporation Adam gave you, it probably didn't know what to do with an angel and all shoved into it."

"I suppose you're probably right, my dear." He still felt rather sluggish, as though he could go back to sleep for hours. "It was...old fears, I imagine."

Crowley's expression softened a little. "We both have to learn to let those go, angel. We're safe now, and if at some point we aren't...well. We'll face it together."

Aziraphale smiled. "Our own side," he murmured. "Have you slept?"

Crowley shrugged. "A bit. Mostly made sure you didn't discorporate."

"Ah. Well, I'm perfectly all right now - at least, on the mend. Feel free to use the bed and get some real sleep; I want to ensure all is as it should be in the shop."   
Crowley flattened his palm against Aziraphale's back, pressing down. "Bed's big enough," he muttered. Avoided eye contact. "I'll sleep, you can sleep off the rest of that pill. The shop is fine, as I said. I wouldn't lie about that."

"I know, my dear." Aziraphale shifted sideways a little to give Crowley more space. The demon slid down a little more so he was horizontal, already looking as though he was half asleep. "And...despite how it makes you uncomfortable - thank you. For...rescuing me, I suppose, again."

Crowley grunted; muttered something that sounded like, "'Course." Then he flopped onto his stomach, shoved both arms beneath his pillow and closed his eyes. Aziraphale studied him for a few moments until his eyelids grew heavy again, and shifted just a little closer, enough to feel the gentle expansion and relaxation of Crowley's rib cage against his arm.

Just a few more hours. Then they could get up, and face the limitless possibilities laid out before them.


End file.
